pretty tinder
by Phoenix Satori
Summary: Per orders, one singularly spectacular f*ckin' fire, comin' RIGHT up. ::Gajeel/Levy::
1. Chapter 1

::two-parter::

gajeel&levy's disastrous first encounter.

i've wanted to write/read this fic for _freaking ever_. because as much as i _obsessively love _this pairing, it's hard to forget that, once upon a time, he _put her in the blosh-fribbling hospital. _essentially without compunction. but this all happened off-screen/off-page, which, in my humble opining onion, is entirelytoomuch missed story potential.

hence!

[DISCLAIMER-NO-JUTSU!]

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_warning: gajeel gets his metaphors confused. and by 'gajeel,' i of course mean _moi_. and by 'confused,' i mean WHERE THE BRICKT*TS IS MY TOASTER, STAN! (also, warnings for language and eventual violence.)_

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Tiny scrap of a thing, blue hair flared out around her face like she's in the habit of stickin' her fingers in light sockets, eyes big and brown and disarmingly bright; there's a still shrewdness to her gaze he almost completely overlooks.

He might yet've just let her slip past, but those eyes of hers flicker over his person, linger for a heartbeat longer'n they ought'a on the black brand magically stamped onto his arm, and he _knows_ -before he ever lays eyes on the Fairy mark set against the skin of her bare shoulder- this undersized sprite is just the spark he's lookin' for.

Trashin' their guild hall turns out not to've been nearly enough to incite Makarov's cream puffs to retaliatory action. The fairy punks may not've _appreciated_ the unsolicited home make-over, but he should'a known it'd take more than his unique aesthetic sensibilities to pull the pansies into an all-out war.

Now he's thinkin' maybe the '_more_' this situation calls for is a little good, ol'-fashioned dragon-on-shrimp brutality. Every mage in the damn country's heard the (undoubtedly exaggerated) rumors: that the fairies are an unstoppable, astonishingly destructive force of nature when their nakama are threatened. He finds himself suddenly keen to put these rumors to the test. And here's just the pretty tinder he needs, all but served up on a silver platter, ripe for the threatening.

Sadistic excitement splits his face with glee; per orders, one singularly spectacular fuckin' fire, comin' _riiiight _up.

/-/

Half a heartbeat before he means to grab her, tug her into an alley, and make with the beatin' her black to match the blue, she checks her stride, gingerly cocks her head to one side, and then has the unimaginable gall to smile up at him and ask him if he's lost.

She pinches a lock of hair curlin' outta the flower-studded band stretched across her forehead, and her expression's open, but not vacant, and definitely not unguarded. The smell of magic permeates the air, filling his nostrils. There's a spell at the ready, on the tip of her tongue, in the steady tension of her fingers.

Her sunny candor is pretense, subterfuge. Shorty's takin' his measure.

_Shrimp's no ditz, then_, he idly notes. 'Lost' is how she's marked him, yet the subtext clearly reads 'suspicious.' Perhaps this means the fairy trashes aren't so naively trusting as the stories make 'em about to be; maybe his pro bono remodeling job's had its intended effect after all, and the lot of 'em are hot n' rarin' for payback, just waiting for a culprit and an opportunity.

Gajeel's only too happy to provide both.

"A'int lost." He replies, slickin' a shit-eating grin across his mouth. Then, as his eyes rake the length of a copper drainpipe just beyond the ridge of her shoulder, gaze briefly, unavoidably drawn to the shapely curve of her hip- "Think I'm right where I ought'a be." Frowning both at how uncomfortably like a shitty pick-up line that must've sounded, and at the unaccountable flush of the Midget's cheeks, "Shit day ta' be a fairy, Shrimp." She bites her lip, swallows hard, and her fear hangs thick n' heavy between them. She trembles, steels herself.

"Better a fairy than a phantom -_any day_." She's more direct than her delicate features suggest. Sharp _and_ fiesty, this one. An exciting combination, and one that warns him not to take this particular female lightly; reminds 'im a bit of a certain always-gloomy rain mage back at Phantom HQ, whose slight build and general air of tragic dejection expertly conceal the biggest, fattest ball of bugfuck **crazy **he's prob'ly ever seen. No tellin' what manner o' insanity the Midget's hidin' under that fork-in-the-toaster updo. Growing bolder still, "And while we're on the subject -unless you're here to offer terms of reconciliation on behalf of your guild, I think it's best you leave. Immediately."

Curiosity pricked, "Or else...?"

"Or else I'll have to escort you out myself. And I can't promise I'll be gentle." His laughter's ugly with derision, intentionally abrasive. Bristling, she squares her shoulders, rises to her full, unimpressive height, and he grins to see her expression, fierce, resolve struck from iron. "_Try me_, you phantom bastard."

_Shrimp's got a spine!_

Empty bluster or not, it's one helluva delightful surprise.

"Gihik -**the **phantom bastard." He corrects. Shorty's shorter-lived bravery expires when he reaches toward her, and she visibly cowers, which does nothing but increase her already dramatic height disadvantage. She's mistakin' his intent here, but terrorizin' the pipsqueak's kinda the whole point of this exercise, so he doesn't bother to reassure her he's only here for violence of the brawling combat variety. Instead, he takes another, deliberately encroaching step toward her, only to wrap his fingers around the drain pipe immediately behind her, crushin' it in his hand easy as he might snap a twig. With a single, sharp twist, he cleanly sunders a full section of the tubing, and proceeds without ceremony to fit the fractured sheeting into his mouth.

"_Gajeel_." She breathes, his name a whispered curse. The revelation of his identity 'pparently isn't a happy one. "The Iron Dragon Slayer." It's a quick deduction -an obvious deduction, maybe, since he ain't exactly bein' subtle, but still _quick_. 'Course, maybe he shouldn't be so surprised she'd caught on straight away; what, with a dragon slayer of their very own, he s'pposes she's probably more accustomed than most to havin' friends with...unconventional appetites. (Even sideways thought of the Salamander bastard sets his blood boilin' with anticipation.)

He doesn't respond for a long moment, wherein the only sound is the eerie-sweet screech of his teeth shearing through copper. It's partially for effect, and also partly 'cause Metalicana'd been pretty fuckin' strict about not talkin' with his mouth full. When the silence stretches on for longer'n he actually means to let it, "What do you want?" Shrimp's voice is high n' clear n' hard as fuckin' steel, which might'a been imposin' if she weren't, well, a shrimp. Or if she weren't so obviously terrified, now that she knows who she's really up against. Now that she knows she can't win.

At length, lazily, "'Says I want 'nything?" Her brow tics in irritation. He leers.

"_What_ do you _want_, Gajeel?" She says his name like she's been sayin' it forever, with the forbearing exasperation of long acquaintance. The unexpected familiarity throws him off-kilter, though only briefly.

"I'm here ta' deliver a message, is all. From my guild, to yours."

Takin' his meaning straight away, "Destroying our home wasn't enough?" Her 'home.' Not her 'guild hall,' her '_home_.' Sentimental fuckin' fairies...

Chewin' thoughtfully, "'pparently not." He swallows the last of the drainpipe, then starts limberin' up for the job, crackin' his neck and his knuckles, rollin' his shoulders back, all the while sizin' her up with a critical eye. He can't tell by lookin' at her what manner o' magic she uses, so it's important he pays attention to everything. The way she moves, the way she breathes -anything might be a tip-off. But honestly speakin', all he's seein' is a girl who maybe ain't so smart after all, bein' so tiny n' vulnerable and wanderin' around at night with no escort less than two days after he'd laid waste to her guild.

For the full breadth of a moment, he considers walkin' away, finding some other fairy shit to pulverize. Surely there'll be no sport in this, no joy. But the insanity passes quickly, and the measured step he takes toward her this time's meant to warn he's ready to get to business.

"You don't have to do this." She says suddenly, frantically. Gajeel briefly halts his advance and frowns, a touch disappointed in her 'til he realizes she's not about to start begging -Shorty's just buyin' herself time, readying herself for an attack. "You'll regret it if you do. Maybe not here, maybe not today, but I swear to you, you _will_ be sorry." Determined intent creases her brow as she locks her arms out in front of her, magic cracklin' at her fingertips, and he abruptly remembers his earlier decision not to underestimate her. Sordid anticipation lights through him; perhaps he'll get a decent fight outta this one, yet.

"_Gihik_...we'll see, Shrimp."

It's the last thing either of them says before the street explodes.

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pre-panther lily gajeel makes me SO SAD. HE JUST NEEDS A FLUFFLY KITTY FOR TO LOVING, GAIS.

('fluffly...?' i LOVE IT.)

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[next chapter: dramatic misgivings! justice speeches! high-octane action! unconscionable violence! accidental groping!]

also, in case some of ye' be worried i've forgotten about jet&droy, NEVERFEAR. they're on their way.

...probably.


	2. Chapter 2

beware: anime physics have been liberally exploited.

also, fair warning: i've been re-watching deadwood, so the gajeel of this chapter has _ZERO FILTER. _the 'f*cks' floweth freely, friends.

['your disclaimers are a fine-ass madness, kaiba.' -lk]

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Gajeel doesn't hear the spell or incantation if there is one, but when the street explodes, he assumes the worst and braces automatically for an impact that never comes.

_No incendiary_, he determines, noting the distinct lack of deadly projectiles and fire, _just a loud fuckin' smokescreen. _In the split-second his battle instincts take to flounder their way to the conclusion that the Midget's spell is harmless, a thick cloud to obstruct sight and nothin' more, she's already snaked her way outta his reach and vanished into the fog. He lunges blindly into the stuff with both hands, hopin' to score a fistful of fabric or scrawny fairy neck. Instead, his fingers graze something yielding n' feathery-soft, and in the shocked silence of a billion neurons firin' all at once, he realizes he's got a hand inadvertently tangled in her hair, and almost forgets to grab her.

_Almost_. At the last second, his fingers snap into a tight fist against her scalp, and she screams, and small, warm fingers tug desperately at his wrist when he starts draggin' her back, but her struggle's pointless; it's painfully obvious Shorty ain't equipped for actual, physical combat.

Through the slowly-clearin' smoke, he can just make out the vibrant blue of her crown, the pale column of her neck, the flash of loud cloth, and as he pulls her irresistibly toward him, his gaze lights on her shoulder blade, where impressed into the cool cream of her skin's that damn Fairy brand, stark white, unmistakable.

"-_hole_," he (barely) hears her say, making him think he's just missed the more interestin' part of a choice personal dig -'til the ground under his feet up n' fucking _disappears_, and he drops unceremoniously through the street onto his ass, inadvertently losin' his grip on the Shrimp in the process. He does make one final, instinctive grab as he plummets, thinkin' he might get lucky and pull her down with him, but it's too late, she's already flyin' away fast as her feet'll carry her, and he misses her by half a damn block.

He smirks, amused, perceiving through the darkness that the hole's just deep enough to be too tall for him to simply jump up, grab the lip, and haul himself out. He hopes, for her sake, that she hadn't really thought this pitiful pit could hold him.

Pulling his arms back and aimin' his palms flat at the ground, he feels that familiar eerie-thrilling phase of flesh and bone to dense, refined steel, his hands and forearms transfigured into thick, solid clubs, which he jabs -_hard_- into paved earth at the same time he wills the metal to stretch and accelerate, _fast_; the opposing force sends him rocketing into the air, where he's got a good vantage to spot the actual word, 'HOLE,' slapped across the cobblestone like a giant stencil, through the finally fading haze. He chews over a theory as he makes a series of quick and purposefully destructive mid-air adjustments, and finds it confirmed when he lands clear of the subterranean prison in time to see his Spark already halfway down the road, arms sweeping through sharp, controlled motions as she deftly weaves her way through the sleeping marketplace. In the next instant, she snaps her hands skyward, and a glowy, flickerin' red 'FLARE' erupts against the night sky with a concussive **_CRACK_**.

_Letter magic_. He might'a known. He's crossed paths with a Script Mage or twelve in his time, though he can't generalize much about 'em beyond a tendency toward craftiness and unpredictability. And weakness. So far, Shrimp fits the bill.

Gajeel isn't worried so much about catchin' up to her; she's a nimble little thing, but seein' as he can just slingshot himself across the street and clear the distance in a handful of seconds, he doesn't bother himself to hurry off chasin' her straight away. What's life without a touch o' suspense, anyway? Keeps him sharp. Builds anticipation. Sweetens the pay-off.

He takes a moment to breathe the air, and to drink in the horrified astonishment of a gathering crowd of townsfolk, likely drawn by all the ruckus he'd made smashin' up nearby stalls and storefronts. The lot of 'em scurry away 'bout as fast as they'd come, and he turns them easily from mind, calls himself back to purpose.

Which wavers, fuckin' _again_, when he moves to finally pursue her and instead accidentally snags his gaze on a long, thin strip of check-patterned fabric, lyin' ripped and twisted in the street. The previously bright spray of flowers along one end's mottled n' soggy with mud, all flopped over and droopy and generally fuckin' tragic-lookin'. He imagines this must be what kickin' a puppy feels like.

Never one to overthink things, he doesn't question the sudden impulse to pick up the Midget's much-abused headband, he just indulges it, winds the cloth once around his knuckles, and takes off after her, refusing outright to tangle with the dragon-sized **_WHY_** knockin' around in his skull.

/-/

Moments later, Gajeel's all but forsaken any tentative sorry feelings he might've entertained on Shorty's behalf. Somehow, the 'handful of seconds' it should'a taken him to run her down has stretched on for a fuck-motherin' _eternity_; soon as he clears one painful or otherwise humiliating obstacle, he can be sure there're a dozen or more to follow, already in place to trip him up. Can't take three goddamn steps without springin' some sneaky-ass trap she's laid -like, for instance, when he first goes catapultin' after her, and he stumbles across some invisible waylay point or other and has to spend the next several, extremely suspenseful seconds dodging a sudden onslaught of 'ROCK's as they shoot outta the dark from every direction like Shrimp-sized bullets. One or four come 'bout a hair fuckin' shy of taking his head clean off his shoulders, but in the end he manages to smash or evade most of 'em, and comes away with nothin' worse than a couple scrapes and a light dusting of rock ash.

Then there's the harmless yet irresistible column of 'WIND' that blows him off-course, and carries him over his mark by damn near the whole market. And the ripe fuckin' 'GAS' that glows a bright, toxic green as it surrounds him in a rancid cloud...and does ultimately nothing but slow him down and come uncomfortably close to makin' him lose his lunch. And there's no forgettin' the 'STORM' that splits the horizon with a thunderous clap, complete with torrential rain and lightning -the latter of which would'a flash-fried him if he hadn't done some fast fuckin' thinking n' remembered he's got a second skin for just such occasions. _Dragon _skin, which no pussy-ass ordinary lightning could possibly damage; might singe him a bit, sure, maybe make him feel kinda warm and tingly for a spell, too, but hurt him? No chance.

Hell, Metalicana _loved_ storms; geezer could fly around for hours, followin' the thunderhead, smackin' bolts at livestock or the larger, fiercer creatures of the Wilds, snappin' up his crispy-charboiled prize in a maw the size of a damn bed n' breakfast, and cacklin' like a maniac all the while. _Sadistic old bastard_, he remembers fondly. The Old Man would'a gotten a kick outta the Shrimp's impromptu tempest -hell, even _he's_ a touch impressed by the scale and potential lethality of her magic.

Which is why, though the storm doesn't -and _can't_- hurt him, it does decide him on continuing this pursuit on foot, because impressive or not, he ain't gettin' fuck-all _anywhere_ bein' tossed around over the bazaar like a helpless fuckin' ragdoll. He's too damn conspicuous when he's airborne -a foot chase'll afford the cover of carts and buildings and a deeper, more sinister kinda darkness, make it more difficult to pin down his exact location. With this one, seems it's best to stay low and outta sight 'til he's right on top of her -which, if he can manage to pull his thumbs out of his own ass for one fuck-forsaken minute, should be very, _very _soon.

And when he does finally catch the little firebrand, he intends on inspiring some sorry feelings in _her_, of an uglier and more lasting ilk.

/-/

She leaves a scent trail a mile wide, so he closes in on her pretty quick, and stealthily readies himself for the first assault. At a junction of intersecting streets, fronted on all sides by smithies and armorists' shops, where a larger-than-life statue of a stern-looking woman simple wearing plate mail stands glowering down on what feels eerily like _him specifically_, the smell of his mark -sweat and fear and...paper?- thickens. She's close.

To the north, the junction pours out into a wide, circular space, in the middle of which stands a fountain with squat, stone flowers along its base. To the west, there's a stretch of novelty shops with such imaginative signs as 'Curious Curios' and 'Horace Hobknob's Knick-knacks, Bric-a-Bracs, and Thingamajigs' and 'Granny Gewgaws' Magical Emporium.' The Shrimp's trail somehow forks in both directions, which tells him she backtracked here, maybe deliberately. It's impossible to determine which trail extends further -meaning she'd run a significant distance down one path before she'd turned back and made her way 'round to the other. Meaning she probably has a pretty good idea how keen his sense of smell is (again, likely thanks to her familiarity with the Salamander), and precisely how to neutralize this advantage.

Unfortunately for the Shrimp, this ain't exactly Gajeel's first poker game, and his preternatural sense of smell sure as shit ain't the only ace up his sleeve. He's just getting started, and he's willin' to bet his much-beloved guitar that his oh-so-clever Spark doesn't have the first damn clue _what_ he's capable of, how vastly different from and undeniably superior to that useless Dragneel_ prick _he is.

He crouches, sweeps loose dust from the cobblestones at his feet, and punches a steel-sheathed fist straight through the earth, to the thick sewage lines he can detect just below the surface. Then, he reaches out, finger-shovels his way past some final layers of rock and dry, packed dirt, and sets the flesh of his right palm against the filth-crusted metal sheath of the line, closes his eyes and listens. The vibrations are subtle at this depth, but he's got a good ear _and_ a specific set of vectors to focus in on, and it's late -the people who're out are drastically outnumbered by the ones all a-snug in their beds, and there ain't but one of 'em racin' across the marketplace at a dead sprint.

"Found you." He gloats to himself, even as a part of him marvels at her stamina -she's been gunning it (_and_ blitzkriegin' him with spells) for what must be goin' on five or six whole minutes.

She's takin' a roughly westerly course, following passages between stalls and buildings. After a beat, he realizes she must be bound for her guild; he recalls following a similar course when he'd visited the site himself, and figures it's as likely a place as any for her to flee. He means to head due west, and cut her off some quarter of a kilometer from here, where he estimates their paths'll cross. And he'll be coming from above -keeping quetly to roof tops and the like, that is, instead of flying around in the air in plain fuckin' sight.

He'll get the drop on her yet, he resolves, absently tightening his grip around the soiled silk of the headband. No way this fairy shakes him again.

/-/

She shakes him, _again_.

He doesn't know how, but she hears him coming, isn't even half-a-whit frightful when he falls outta the sky right in front of her. On the contrary, she's ready for him, and he doesn't even have time to (literally) steel himself before he's slamming through a 'WALL' thick as he is. He still craters right through it, 'course, but it _smarts_, and he'd wager it can't look 'specially fuckin' dignified, either. Gajeel catches the pearly flash of her teeth, mouth upturned with wry, impish triumph -but she spins away, the grin vanishes, and then so does she, around yet another _fucking corner_.

Slippery as a damn eel, this one.

Gajeel springs to his feet and tears right after her, anticipating and avoiding the trap 'BOMB' that comes hissing toward him as he does so. The spell still detonates, though, an instant later when it strikes the faded wooden sign of the shop at his back, and _spectacularly_ at that, rendering his triumphal evasion a pointless maneuver. This time, the explosion is _very _real, and throws him twenty, maybe thirty meters, slams him skull first into the ground. Even encased in steel as he is, the impact rattles his teeth painfully, brings him brief, excruciating pause.

When he recovers, it's to the unexpected sight of half the street, blown to _total shit_. He grins, irresistibly giddy at the unnecessary destruction of it all. She's not pullin' shots for safety's sake -hers or the market's. (It's a while, yet, before he'll come to learn that this city is special, one-of-a-kind in its familiarity with and ability to sustainably withstand apocalypse-grade property damage.)

Newly reinvigorated by the Shrimp's willingness to play it fast and loose with her magic, he charges back into action, and has her again in his sights just as she breaches the outer perimeter of the bazaar. He knows he's likely got only seconds to spare before he inadvertently activates another spell, so he hits the corner hard and immediately looses a barrage of high-velocity iron spears that rip through the intervening space between them in a tight knot of uncomfortably **substantial **seconds -and _barely_ miss impaling her at the hip and shoulder when she mysteriously _de-fucking-materializes_ before his very eyes.

The spears pass without effect through empty air, mangle only a fetid pair of dumpsters at the end of what he's only now realizing is an alley, and in the disorienting aftermath of watching her apparently phase out of existence, the only thought in his mind is that he'd nearly run her through. That he might well've killed her.

Except he didn't, she's not dead, she's -she's, she's fucking _somewhere_, he can smell her!

His sudden, insane preoccupation with the relative safety of the very girl he'd just tried to pinion to a wall lasts only a fraction of an instant, but it's long enough to unsettle him, to confound and anger him, to make him hesitate, for a breath, a blink -which, as he _wellfuckingknows_, is also plenty long enough for all hell to break loose.

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[next chapter: jet & droy! laaaate to the party!]

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also, a brief note about the hold-up: writing this encounter has turned out to be much, much more difficult than anticipated. mostly, the challenge has been trying to figure out how to approach the Upcoming Brutality in such a way that i'm not left feeling hate-stab-murder feelings for gajeel when i'm finished. this chapter happened as a result of my reluctance to actually tackle the tricky f*cked-upedness that is shadow gear's beatdown; hence, this baby's now a three-parter -with a possible flash-forward epilogue to follow.


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